


Falling At Your Feet

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Dates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6644884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade just wants to make a good impression...but the universe (and the criminal fraternity of London) have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling At Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little first-date fic, hope you enjoy.

Greg Lestrade tugged his cuffs straight, looking at himself in the mirror. 

He worried the shirt was too casual- the jeans a bad choice. He should probably wear a suit. Except none of them were good enough, either. All off-the-peg, practical, but nothing more. Nothing compared to Mycroft's beautifully tailored three-piece numbers. And anyway, Mycroft had said not to get dressed up.

So. He tweaked the fabric where it tucked into his jeans. He really hoped Mycroft wouldn't be wearing a suit. Regardless, this would have to do. He fiddled with his cuffs again- he usually rolled his sleeves up, but the large white dressing and bandages on his forearm made him feel self conscious. He was just pleased that the hospital had been able to see him fast enough to get home, wash as best he could and be ready for his first date in...years. He had thought, as he sat in A&E with half of the area car's first aid kit wrapped around his arm, that the universe was just conspiring to ensure he remained lonely for the rest of time. But then some deity had sent him a nurse with a deft, steady hand, and an understanding that he wanted to be gone as quickly as possible. Fifteen stitches through skin and muscle and countless steri-strips later, he was out of the door and being driven home by Sally Donovan.

He turned away from the mirror, his stomach flipping slightly. He swallowed. Just nerves. Stupid nerves. Why was it that he'd been able to meet Mycroft hundreds of times before, never a worry, but now, now it wasn't work or business or anything except pleasure, now he was nervous. Ridiculous.

Checking his watch he realised he should get going. He grabbed his jacket and scarf - the evening was chilly, with a brisk breeze - and headed for the bus. He imagined Mycroft summoning his chauffeur, and grinned to himself. What on earth was he doing? Dating a man who was so powerful no one even knew what he really did. They didn't have anything in common. Still, he was determined to enjoy the night and if it didn't amount to anything then...well, Mycroft would probably insist on paying, so it would be a free dinner, at the least. He had nothing to lose.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling tired as he slumped into his seat. He shrugged deeper into his coat, chill seeming to creep into his bones anyway. He yawned widely, and hoped he could stop that before meeting Mycroft. Rubbing his hands briskly over his face he wondered if he should have taken the time to shave again. He hated shaving, but his stubble was rough and dark by this time of the day. Mycroft might not approve. A rueful grin spread over his face. As if Mycroft was going to come near him, on a first date. Firm handshake, at most, he reckoned.

He sat, thinking about work, Sherlock, Mycroft and how his life had changed in the past years, when he abruptly realised he was about to miss his stop and jumped up, hitting the button to alert the driver.

He clung to the yellow pole as the world seemed to lurch and swim slightly around him. Shaking his head he took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes tight closed, and stepped back into the chill night air, feeling better immediately. The bus had been a little stuffy.

As he approached the address Mycroft had given he couldn't see a sign for the restaurant. He began to worry. What if he was in the wrong place? The wrong street – maybe he should be on the other side of the city. Except…that unmarked building was clearly occupied by people eating. And tucked up under the awning, above the door, there was a subtle crown painted in gold against the dark green woodwork. Right, somewhere far too posh to bother having a name, obviously.

Checking his watch he found he was a couple of minutes early – and for a moment thought about waiting outside. Then felt silly. It was cold, and Mycroft seemed like the sort who would be early, rather than late. He stepped inside, and immediately a pretty young girl appeared, smiling at him.

"Do you have a booking, Sir?"

He hooked his fingers in his scarf, pulling it loose as the heat of the restaurant hit him. "Yeah – yes. Name of Holmes – I'm meeting him here."

"Ah, Mr Holmes is here already, Sir. Please, follow me."

Lestrade did so, blinking into the slight gloom at the back of the room. He smiled as the waitress turned and gestured to where Mycroft was just getting up. He was, of course, wearing a suit.

"And can I take your coat, Sir?"

Lestrade shrugged off his jacket and Mycroft looked a little awkward, waiting as Lestrade moved to the chair opposite him.

"I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty of ordering a bottle," Mycroft reached and filled Lestrade's glass. "It's a very fine vintage, if I do say so myself."

Lestrade hadn't really thought about drinking, but it seemed rude not to join Mycroft in one glass, so he lifted it, admiring the deep colour, and sipped.

Mycroft's eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly.

"Nice," Lestrade confirmed, and pulled at his shirt collar a little. The restaurant was packed, and they were close to the open kitchen - all conspiring to make it very warm.  
He noticed two small beakers and a bottle of water sitting at the edge of the table, and reached for it. “For you?” he offered.

“Thank you,” Mycroft nodded.

“So how was your day?” Lestrade asked, gulping down some of the icy water.

“Busy,” Mycroft gave a small smile. “But satisfying. And yourself?”

Lestrade’s mind flicked back over the events of the day - most of them weren’t exactly first-date casual conversation - as he imagined most of Mycroft’s day wasn’t, really.

“Yeah, good, thanks. Caught someone who’s been evading us for a while, so that was satisfying.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft smiled, and actually looked genuinely pleased for him.

A waiter interrupted them, quickly running through the specials of the day for Lestrade.

“It all looks delicious,” Lestrade commented, smiling at Mycroft.

“Indeed, the chef here is very talented.”

They both chose something, although it was a hard decision, and Lestrade sipped at his wine again.

“Come here a lot, then?” Lestrade asked, trying to think of things they could talk about.

“Indeed, for…personal appointments. It’s not really formal enough for business, for which I’m grateful.”

 

They chatted about a variety of subjects, from their respective childhoods - both in the countryside, albeit wildly different in every other way - to cars. Lestrade loved driving, and his one regret of moving to CID had been giving up on pursuit driving in the high-powered marked police cars. Not that his pool car was bad - the BMW still had plenty of go in it, he just didn’t get to use it that often.

Mycroft admitted to owning more than one car - he had his ‘work car’, as he referred to it - the one which Lestrade knew from previous ‘meetings’ - kidnappings, as John Watson called them. But he also had an Aston Martin, and Lestrade could see from the smile on his face that it was anything but work.

“It wouldn’t do to turn up at the family home as if I were part of a state visit,” he smiled. “Besides, the Zagato makes one feel rather free, in all those country lanes.”

Lestrade smiled, imagining Mycroft wearing some sort of country driving outfit, including gloves.

“Like James Bond?” He asked.

“Hardly,” Mycroft answered, but Lestrade got the feeling he wasn’t exactly against the idea, either.

 

The food was excellent - Mycroft had the Hake, and Lestrade tried the Quail. It was completely amazing, although Lestrade’s appetite was rather lacking and he felt rude as he pushed things around his plate.

“Is it not to your liking?” Mycroft asked.

“No, no, it’s fantastic - I mean, really, absolutely lovely. Afraid my appetite is just…a bit lacking. Sorry.”

Mycroft smiled politely, and Lestrade felt like he was being incredibly rude.

“Probably just…nerves,” he smiled. “Bit of an adrenalin-filled day, and now…well, this.”

“You are nervous?” Mycroft put down his fork.

“Well…kind of? I mean…they’re not called ‘first date nerves’ for nothing, right?”

“I assure you, you have nothing at all to be nervous about,” Mycroft answered.

“Thanks,” Lestrade grabbed his wine and sipped it, trying to cover his embarrassment.

 

Once he’d eaten all he could he excused himself and headed downstairs to the toilet. If possible, the small bar area down there was even warmer than the restaurant itself, and he splashed water on his face over the sink as sweat threatened to bead on his forehead.

He undid his cuff and checked the dressing on his arm, cursing when there were spots of blood showing through it already.

He pulled himself together, pressed hard on the wound, ignoring the pain, and hoped it would stop the bleeding.

Climbing the stairs he gripped the handrail tightly, knowing he shouldn’t be out of breath just from a few steps, and plastered a grin on his face before turning and heading back to Mycroft.

“Did you wish to look at the dessert menu?” Mycroft gestured to the small sheet of card which had appeared on the table.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Lestrade said. “Sorry, I’m not being a great companion here, am I?”

Mycroft waved a hand. “I understand that your job is demanding. Pay it no mind. I have had a lovely evening.”

Lestrade finished off his wine, gulped down the last of his water, and realised he had no idea what to expect next.

“If…you would like,” Mycroft said carefully, tone gentle, “You are welcome to come back to my house, have a small nightcap?”

“Oh, that sounds…really nice, actually, but…” Lestrade fumbled for any words which wouldn’t sound like a brush off. “I’m just not sure I’m the best company, tonight. But any other time I’d love to - this isn’t…”

“Of course,” Mycroft cut through his rambling. “Then allow me to give you a lift home. I can’t imagine you wish to be waiting around for the bus.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Lestrade began.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft waved a hand. “Besides, I have the Aston.”

 

The car was amazing. Lestrade just stared at it, before daring to reach out and touch the roof. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

“It is indeed a classic design.”

“When you said, I thought you’d have one of the new ones, not…this is amazing.”

“Ah, well, it is a modern version of the original, on an original chassis. They made a few extra, in the nineties.”

“Well, still, it’s amazing.” Lestrade was feeling a little better, out in the fresh air, and he took a last longing look at the beautiful lines of the vehicle before climbing inside, running a hand over the fine leather.

“I’m guessing I don’t need to give you my address?” he smiled.

“Only if it makes you feel better,” Mycroft smiled back, then turned the ignition key. The engine growled into life, and a few people walking past turned to look.

The roads weren’t too busy, and Mycroft wove through small backstreets, heading for Lestrade’s flat.

The heater began pumping out warm air, and Lestrade abruptly began to feel worse again. As the car twisted and turned he felt his head spinning a bit, and he was overcome with worry that he’d somehow throw up in this amazing, beautiful, car.

He tried to spot the control for the air vent, then, failing to figure out how it worked in the gloom, he looked for a button to open the window, before finally realising that it was an old fashioned winder-handle, and anyway, they were nearly at his flat.

He felt like a complete idiot, but as they pulled up on the quiet residential road, he opened the door and virtually jumped out.

As he stood the world - the streetlights, the bright windows, the headlights from the nearby main road all lurched around him, the sound of the engine of the Aston faded to nothing but a sharp whine in his ears and everything just…stopped.

 

He could hear Mycroft, somewhere, far away, his voice echoing and unclear. And he was cold. Freezing, in fact. He tried to move, to rub his arms, but found he couldn’t co-ordinate his heavy, awkward, limbs.

There was a different tone to Mycroft’s voice then, and a warm hand on his face.

“Greg? Greg?”

He opened his eyes, and at first was confused by the darkness, but then it slowly came back to him - the dinner, the car journey and now…now he was lying on the pavement next to the car, with Mycroft kneeling next to him, phone in his hand.

“Oh shit,” he muttered.

He rolled over, and realised there was something soft under his head.

“Greg, easy, easy now,” Mycroft’s hand was strong around his bicep.

It was Mycroft’s suit jacket, rolled up in a bundle, now under his cheek. He stopped, the world swinging and swirling around him as if it were all made of liquid in a glass.

“I’m okay,” he managed to mumble, pushing himself up to sit back against the car.

“Quite clearly you are not. An ambulance is on the way,” Mycroft assured.

“No, really, I just…I just…ah, shit,” he fumbled with his cuff and pulled it back, showing Mycroft the bandages. “There was just a bit of bother, today, I’m just…stupid.”

“Oh. I…you should have said,” Mycroft said softly. “Do you think you can make it inside? I’ll cancel the ambulance. But you should be checked over.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade began to push himself to standing, and Mycroft’s hand was quickly clamped around his arm.

“Steady,” Mycroft warned.

Lestrade leant on the roof of the car for a few moments, as Mycroft locked it up, then allowed himself to be supported up the short path and to the front door.

Mycroft’s hand never left the small of his back as they climbed the stairs, and Lestrade allowed himself a small smile.

“I need a drink,” Lestrade said. “You want something? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“A coffee would be most welcome - but allow me,” Mycroft steered Lestrade to the small kitchen table.

Lestrade gratefully sat down. “There’s glasses above the draining board, coffee the next cupboard over.”

Mycroft ran the tap until it was cold, then handed Lestrade a pint of water, before digging in the next cupboard for mugs, coffee and the cafetiere.

“You did not feel you could tell me, about your injury?”

Lestrade sighed. “I just didn’t want to…miss our date,” he admitted. “Feels like it took forever to arrange it.”

Mycroft set the kettle to boil.

“It would have been no trouble.”

“It would have sounded like a bad excuse,” Lestrade replied. “I wanted to come, Mycroft. I wanted this to be a great night. I just…I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Ring John Watson. Tell him you need a quick check up,” Mycroft ordered.

“He’s probably busy!” Lestrade protested.

“Nonsense. He’s been at home all evening, watching some frankly terrible television programmes.”

Lestrade sighed. But he also took out his phone and rang John.

“All right, mate? Yeah, yeah, well, sort of…yeah, it’s just my arm. No, no, I did, got stitched up. It’s just…well, to be honest, I just made a complete tit of myself by fainting and now my…date is insisting I should get checked out.” He laughed at something John said, and Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, no, I’m at home. Cheers mate, I’ll owe you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft smiled.

“Nah, thank you. And sorry for…not telling you.”

“I’m sure I would’ve been tempted to do the same,” Mycroft answered.

Lestrade smiled to himself, as Mycroft sat down with the coffee, a couple of mugs and the milk from the fridge.

“Drink your water,” Mycroft ordered, pouring the coffee.

“Yes, Boss,” Lestrade responded, chugging down the rest of his water.

“So, what happened?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, you know, snivelling villain thinks they can escape incredibly handsome and heroic cop, but is proven wrong by heroic cop’s heroic colleagues. The usual.”

“That’s usual, is it?” Mycroft’s tone made it obvious he was sceptical.

“Absolutely. You know, when we see the Bat-Signal going up from Big Ben we just leap into action.”

“Indeed.”

Lestrade sighed, still grinning. “Okay, so we heard this guy was still visiting his mum. We waited, when he went in we leapt out of the cars, knocked on the door. His mum told him to go with us, and for a moment it seemed like he might, but as he headed for us, and the door, he pulled a knife he’d nicked out of her kitchen, tried to stab me, tried to run, sort of failed on both counts. Just slashed into my arm, then got caught by Sal and the uniforms.”

“And this is what you describe as a ‘good day’?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade shrugged. “It ended well. Well…it nearly ended well. It was ending well until you had to pull me out of a gutter. Speaking of…your car might end up on bricks out there. It’s not exactly…inconspicuous.”

“I assure you my car will be fine.”

 

Once Lestrade had convinced Mycroft he really was feeling better, he gave Mycroft a very short tour of his small flat - bathroom, bedroom, sitting room and tiny office in what would once have been the second bedroom. They then settled on the large leather sofa, Mycroft still clearly keeping a close eye on Lestrade.

 

When the doorbell rang Mycroft stood to answer it.

“You don’t have to,” Lestrade protested, but gave up as Mycroft left the room. He did stand, though, and walk to the hallway, leaning on the bannisters, looking down to the front door.

John looked surprised. “Mycroft?”

“Indeed. Thank you for coming over, John. Greg insists he’s okay, but fainting on the pavement would suggest otherwise.”

“I..right, yeah, of course.” John looked up to Lestrade. “I’m surprised the hospital didn’t tell you to take it easy.”

Lestrade shrugged. “They did.”

“But?” John climbed the stairs, swinging his bag off his back and twisting Lestrade’s arm a little to catch the light.

“But…I had other plans?” Lestrade answered, feeling a little guilty.

John looked back to Mycroft. “Riiight,” he answered. “Sit at the table, let’s see what damage you’ve done.”

Mycroft hovered - there was no other word for it - fetching John warm water and a clean towel when asked.

Finally John re-bandaged the wound, satisfied that there was no serious damage done, although two of the stitches had split, and packed his things away.

“So…do take it easy now. And drink plenty of water. No…strenuous activities.” He gave a pointed look to Mycroft. “And, you know, it’s probably better if you aren’t alone. Not that it seems like you’re planning to be alone.”

Lestrade shot a look at Mycroft. “Cheers, thanks, mate,” he clapped a hand on John’s shoulder and began steering him out of the flat.

At the front door John grinned at him. “Mycroft, eh? I assume Sherlock doesn’t know?”

“I have no idea - this is…was…our first date. And…well, now you’ve virtually invited him to stay over I’m going to go see what he thinks about that.”

“Ah, shit, sorry,” John gave an awkward smile. “Still, doctor’s orders and all that?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Cheers.”

 

When he got back to the kitchen Mycroft was leaning against the worktop.

“So…” he started.

“I can, of course, stay, if you would like?” Mycroft offered.

“And…not do anything strenuous?” Lestrade gave a small smile.

“I usually try not to do anything too strenuous until the third date,” Mycroft said seriously.

“Well…if we count dinner as a first date, this coffee as a second…then perhaps breakfast would be the third,” Lestrade smiled, and planted a kiss on Mycroft’s lips.


End file.
